I Shall Never Marry
by degasballerina
Summary: Christine Daaé never left Perros, and at age twenty seven, her unmarried status makes her an object of curiosity and scorn. Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, now a widower with a young daughter, never forgot Christine Daaé, as hard as he tried. When the two childhood friends meet again, their self-imposed pledges to remain alone forever wavers, but it's agony to try to stay apart.
1. Chapter 1

**_CHRISTINE_**

It was a long walk from her cottage to the center of town and it felt even longer when the wind bit at her face, never mind the judgemental eyes glaring at her as she made her way. Christine Daae would have been a subject of curiosity even if she had just been a foreigner, but the conspicuous lack of a wedding ring on her finger at age twenty seven made her an object of scorn. The only thing stopping mothers from pulling their children away from her when she passed by was that a few had taken pity on her and employed her as a music teacher, and soon enough the rest had followed suit. Now the married women of the town, some of whom were younger than her, looked down upon her as an old maid.

On that October day, which might have been considered crisp if not for the cold wind, Christine Daaé's thoughts were elsewhere. Her boots were in need of new soles, as they had nearly worn out at the toes. She wondered how she might conjure up a few francs out of thin air, her meager income barely covered enough to keep her fed and clothed as it was. Of course, she could always ask for help from Erik, who seemed to live quite comfortably despite not having a visible source of income or serious employment, but she had always rebuffed any attempts of his to give her money. It wouldn't do to drop her pride and start accepting charity now.

Her first stop was the house of the le Quellec family. Aline le Quellec had hopes of being a high society lady, at least by the standards of this small village, despite the fact that her husband was a fisherman barely eking out a living. Most of the time, Madame le Quellec could only afford to pay her to teach little Bernard with a loaf of fresh-baked bread or a piece of fish, but Christine accepted what she could get. Besides, Bernard was a sweet boy, with no ear for music, but a willingness to learn.

The le Quellecs had no piano of their own, neither did Christine for that matter, so Christine merely taught him voice, armed with only a pitch pipe and determination. Bernard sang in the boy's choir at church, but his mother had dreams of him finally receiving a solo. Christine had faith that he could improve to that point, although perhaps he wouldn't sing on stages throughout Europe.

Christine knocked on the cottage door and was surprised to be greeted by Mathilde Seznec, a busybody and self-styled matchmaker who had found six or seven potential husbands for Christine despite her protestations. Luckily, most of the men were not broken-hearted a bit when she turned them down, excluding one. In fact, Mathilde seemed the most torn up about the matter.

"Ah, Christine!" she said, pinching her cheek. "Come in, Aline and I were just having tea and I have the most delicious news!"

There were two types of people in town: the ones who disdained Christine and the ones who tried to make her into a respectable woman. Christine wasn't sure which ones she preferred, but Mathilde and Aline fell into the latter scarcely had time to take off her coat and scarf when she was offered a spot at the kitchen table. It seemed poor Bernard had a terrible cold and could barely speak, let alone sing. Christine felt resentful that she had made the walk for nothing and now was being forced into a little tea party. Perhaps she enjoyed her status as an outsider for usually it meant people left her well enough alone.

Aline grasped Christine's hand entirely too tightly. "I heard it in the marketplace, only just yesterday. You know that great big house that's been neglected for so long? The old woman who owned it, she's passed-" both women crossed themselves in an over-dramatic fashion.

"And it sat neglected for years," interrupted Mathilde. "But her nephew, the Vicomte of something or other, he's bought the whole estate and wants to live here year-round!"

"How lovely it will be, he's put an advertisement in the paper looking for staff! My poor Gabriel, he's had such a hard time finding a position in the offseason since the upper crust are only here for the summer, and his constitution is so delicate that he couldn't go out on the ocean to fish with his father and couldn't stand the miasmas in any city, but he is so tall and handsome, he'll make such a lovely footman, don't you think, Christine?"

Christine could barely process all the information coming at her in the form of rapid-fire chatter. Yes, she was quite familiar with the house they were referring to, she had spent many hours there as a child, and many more as an adult in the caretaker's cottage, for her only friend in the village lived there. A day hadn't passed without thinking about those three summers she had spent with Raoul.

Feigning indifference as best she could, she said "A vicomte? Do you happen to remember the surname?"

"Carpentier… no, no, it was Changy.." said Aline, furrowing her brow.

"Chagny!" said Mathilde triumphantly. "That's what it is! Oh, I had nearly forgotten, didn't you used to play with a little Chagny boy?"

Christine froze. The last thing she wanted to do was draw attention to any connection she had with Raoul. She stared down at her teacup.

"Uh… yes. I think it was the Vicomte's younger brother, what was it? Rainier, or something like that. It's so long ago that I can hardly remember," she lied, fidgeting with her spectacles.

"Oh, that's right. What a handsome little boy he was. Awfully fond of you, wasn't he, Christine?" Mathilde took a great big sip of her tea.

"I wouldn't know anything about that," Christine rose from the table. "Now, if you don't mind, ladies, as much as I enjoy this, I must pay a visit to… uh, the confessional." _Damn. She should have thought more about her escape plan. _

"Oh Christine, having impure thoughts?" joked Aline, immediately realizing she had gone too far with a gasp. Mathilde gave her friend a smack on the upper arm.

"Thoughts, yes, but not quite impure ones," Christine said, hiding her red face as she shrugged on her coat. "Good day, madames. Same time next week for Bernard's lesson, Mme. le Quellec?"

Aline bit her lip, staring down at her teacup as if trying to divine the right thing to say. "Please, let me at least give you something for your troubles in getting here."

"There's no need," Christine said curtly.

Her stomach growled and betrayed her. Reluctantly, she accepted a few raspberry tea cakes in a basket ("For your friend M. Lunel") and a promise of two lessons next week.

She held her chin relatively high as she walked to Erik's cottage. Very few people stared at the thin scar that marred the left side of her face, at least compared to before. Cut by someone's unsure hand, it extended jaggedly from the corner of her mouth to her temple. The same face powder that Erik used to make himself less ghastly looking covered up most of the damage and she liked to believe she could pass for an ordinary woman. The other marks on her body were kept hidden under high collars and long sleeves.

As she walked, she was consumed by thoughts of Raoul. How she had tried to forget about him, even after he had promised the opposite. And now his brother was to take up residence here in Perros, of all places.

She had only met Philippe, Vicomte de Chagny on one occasion, on the day he had come to reclaim his little brother and send him off to boarding school. Christine remembered distinctly that she and Raoul were fifteen, soaking wet from the sea, dripping onto the antique carpet in Aunt Hortense's library. The Vicomte was quite glad to see Raoul, but regarded Christine with a hint of disdain that Christine felt acutely. Raoul, bounding with puppy-like energy, proudly introduced her as if she was a proper lady, not a freckled, impoverished foreigner who still couldn't always remember which letters were silent when speaking French. The Vicomte de Chagny took her hand and kissed it anyways, then asked her if he might have a moment alone with Raoul.

She agreed, but Christine could not help but listen at the door, it was a dreadful habit of hers. The heavy oak of the library door muffled most of it, but she could still make out snatches of the conversation.

The Vicomte's rich baritone voice rang out much clearer.

"... wasting your time on a... you surely must know… school will do you some good…"

Christine had spent many hours in the ensuing years trying to decipher exactly what the Vicomte was discussing. All she knew was that Raoul had shouted at his brother that he didn't know anything about anything and stormed out of the room, smacking Christine in the face with the door.

Her face stinging from both pain and the realization she'd been caught, she fell to the floor. Poor dear Raoul, oh, he was crying too. His aunt was always chastising him for his tears, what a sweet, sensitive boy he was.

Her legs were so used to carrying her to Erik's cottage, that she didn't need to think much about it before she arrived. She was familiar with him that she would have opened it without knocking, but after catching him and Sassan in an intimate moment on the sofa, she had no desire to burst in again after that.

The door opened a crack and Erik's mismatched yellow eyes peered out at her.

"Ah, so La Daaé has decided to pay a visit. What an honor!"

He swung open the door, greeting her with open arms.

"You didn't tell me someone had bought the house," Christine blurted out.

"Come in, you'll catch a chill again."

"You're not answering the question," she said, obliging his request anyway and stepping inside. As Christine unwound her scarf (the more fragile original red one was safe at home in a drawer), she felt a sense of irritation._ But why? It didn't make a difference really if Raoul's brother should live here. _

"I don't believe that was actually a question, more of a statement, really," his mouth flickered into an unsettling smile.

"Erik, you know what I mean, you horrible pedant," she laughed in spite of herself.

"I knew nothing until yesterday, and anyway you haven't been here for a week. Tea?"

"Yes, of course," she grumbled, shrugging off her cloak. "What do you mean, you didn't know until yesterday?"

He put the kettle on. "Well, the letter was undated. Monsieur le Vicomte of whatever, the nephew of the woman who used to own the house, intended to bring his family to live here. He had bought the place from his cousin. When they'll come, I don't know, the whole thing seems rather rushed. Hopefully he intends to spend more on the upkeep of the place before it crumbles into dust. I don't think the untitled Monsieur de Chagny, the old woman's son, ever paid a visit, I only met him once when he hired me. What a buffoon."

Erik had lived in Paris for two decades, but the air in the city was so disagreeable to his weak lungs that his doctor insisted that he relocate to the seaside. He took the job as a caretaker to Paradis-sur-Mer, Aunt Hortense's house, to occupy his time, although he seemed to have no shortage of money, skills, or hobbies.

"Monsieur le Vicomte bought the house, but he didn't take a look at it?" Christine perched herself on the sofa.

"It appears so. I suppose he doesn't realize that his cousin had only paid me the bare minimum to keep the sea from reclaiming the house. Every time I wrote to Monsieur Claude about the roof leaking or the mice, he just told me to handle it the best I could without sending any additional funds for workmen or supplies. There's only so much one man can do. Well, _caveat emptor _, Monsieur le Vicomte."

"So you don't know when he's coming?" Christine tried to act indifferent, dreading Erik's good-natured teasing. Erik was like an older brother or bachelor uncle in that way. In many ways.

"No, the letter said next week, but there was no date," he said. "But he did enquire on my recommendations on who should fill various positions at the house… housekeeper, cook, music teacher…"

Christine looked up from picking at her frayed sleeves. "Music teacher?"

"That got your attention. And you have an 'in' with the family," Erik chortle as he poured Christine's cup.

She snorted. "If Philippe de Chagny even remembers who I am, I'm sure it won't make a difference. But I'll try."

"But more importantly, what sort of treat have you got for us in the basket? I may have a poor sense of smell-" he popped out his false nose for second before promptly sticking it back in, "But I know you've brought some sweets."

_Yes, what a much easier topic to discuss _, Christine thought.

**_RAOUL_******

He found it impossible to not feel pangs of guilt as he carried his sobbing daughter to the train. Poor Clémentine would miss the house overlooking the garden and all the people that would go with it. Maybe it would have been better if Raoul had just told her they were going on an extended vacation and not moving away for the time being. But it really was for the best that they were leaving Paris. He couldn't face another minute feeling like he was under a magnifying glass.

Clémentine seemed less upset once they had settled in their compartment and her governess, Apolline, had produced the brand new doll Raoul had purchased the day before. Raoul tugged nervously on his mustache as Clémentine appraised the doll. As he got older, he felt more and more like he was becoming Philippe, down to his nervous habits. Sometimes he caught himself giving the same speeches and advice to his daughter as Philippe once given to him. And just like Raoul as a boy, Clémentine disregarded most of his "life lessons". But she was also quite young.

"She's got holes in her cheeks, like me!" said Clémentine, wiping her tears away for the moment. "I love her, Papa!"

"Those are called dimples. What do you say when someone gives you a present, Clémentine?" nudged Apolline.

"Oh! Thank you, Papa!"

Raoul had been against having any sort of nanny at first. After being treated quite harshly by his own governess, he had no intention of subjecting any of his children to that. But, in between being a first time father and being bereaved, he was quite overwhelmed in the first days of Clémentine's life, Philippe had stepped in and secured a governess who had been schoolmates with the governess of their sister Amalie-Louise's children. Apolline was a godsend, a warm woman a few years Raoul's senior, and knew just what to do when Raoul did not. Still, he was more involved than the typical father, at least that's the impression he got from his experience with his own father and Apolline's reactions when he did things like give Clémentine a bath or tuck her in at night.

They traveled relatively lightly, bringing only five trunks and two servants, the aforementioned Apolline, and Raoul's valet, Durand. In Paris, he had only a few additional servants, a housekeeper, a maid, and a cook. There was no need for a full fleet of staff as he tried to live simply. When he decided to move to Perros, he didn't want to uproot too many lives. Madame Caron had taken the opportunity to retire, and Lisette, the maid, decided to get married. He had found a well paying job for Madame Dupont, the cook, with his sister. He had already placed an advertisement in the paper in Brittany seeking some more staff. It was a larger house, which meant he would need more people keeping it up.

The house, pretentiously called Paradis-sur-Mer, had belonged to Raoul's aunt. When Aunt Hortense died, she left the house to her son, Claude, who had more interest in gambling and horse racing than real estate. When Claude's debts grew too high and he considered selling, Raoul was more than happy to take it off his hands, sight unseen (although he feigned indifference in order to get a lower price). The purchase just so happened to coincide with the latest embarrassment at the hands of his extended family, and Raoul seized the opportunity to make a clean break and flee for the seaside.

Perros had been the last place he was truly happy. After that last summer, he had the joy figuratively beaten out of him by, in order, military school, a long naval deployment, an arranged but not enforced marriage to a woman he hardly knew, another deployment to the Arctic this time, and a return to Paris only to find himself a father and widower all at once. Clémentine was the light of his life and the only thing that kept him from blowing his brains out years ago. She was five years old, the very image of her mother with reddish-gold hair and porcelain skin. The only thing marking her as a Chagny was the same crooked smile as her father and the same aquiline nose sported by nearly every member of the family.

People close to Raoul (or at least once had been, as he had tried to retreat from public life) had tried to set him up with a new bride as soon as he stopped wearing mourning clothes. When Philippe at last realized he had no intention of marrying again, he tried to set Raoul up with a mistress.

"You deserve a way to blow off steam," he said. "There are any number of girls at the opera who could be whatever you wanted them to be. Redheads, yes, but you always had a thing for blondes, did you not? Remember that skinny little Swede in Perros?"

Raoul might have struck anyone else who had said something like that, but to hit Philippe would have been like a son hitting his father. He had tried so hard to keep his temper cool after the embarrassing incident at his niece Euphémie's engagement party. Raoul felt his face flush at the memory. How dare Philippe remind him of Christine, the only girl he had ever truly loved? She was probably married with several children by now, he realized. If she was still in Perros, and with his luck she would be, her husband would probably never approve of them rekindling their friendship. Ah, yes, he could see it now. Her husband would be a tall, broad fisherman with meaty hands and no qualms about disrespecting the aristocracy. Christine would be too busy looking after her brood of yellow-haired offspring to speak to him. They'd stay acquaintances, perhaps at the most giving each other a distant nod when they passed by each other at Sunday Mass.

Raoul realized he was getting himself worked up to the point where his companions in the train compartment had noticed. He unclenched his fists and cleared his throat. His overactive imagination had got the better of him.

"Monsieur le Vicomte, are you in need of a drink?" asked Durand, offering a handkerchief.

_Yes _, thought Raoul, _a stiff one _. He tried to avoid liquor as medication, disliking how it made him feel. But sometimes he needed to take the edge off.

"I'll take some water, if you don't mind ringing for someone," he asked instead.

Luckily, Clémentine had fallen asleep against the window. She was always so sensitive to his emotions, so concerned if her father was the slightest bit unhappy, so he tried to plaster on a smile even when he was miserable.

It was ridiculous of him to get so flustered over a hypothetical situation. Raoul had envisioned some brutish husband for Christine that may very well not even exist. And what was it to him if Christine should be married or widowed or a courtesan or a spinster? It wasn't as if he was in the market for a wife. What did he expect Christine to do, wait eternally at the window, live like a vestal virgin, swearing to never love another until Raoul rode up on a white horse? How are unreasonable, when he had not kept himself pure for her.

The rest of the journey was more of the same, Raoul ruminating over every failure in his life, as per usual. That seemed to pass the time quite well, and before long they reached their stop. A hired carriage was waiting for them. Raoul spent the entire time gawking at the subtle and sometimes dramatic changes from the Perros of his youth. It seemed there were much fewer trees, and the ones that remained were taller than he remembered. Then they reached the house.

As the carriage made its way down the winding drive, Raoul had the distinct feeling he had been ripped off. The once-proud villa was a shadow of its former self, with loose shingles and chimneys leaning away from the house. The grass was overgrown and the flowerbeds choked with weeds. What used to be animal topiaries were now amorphous blobs. He knew very well that it wouldn't be the same as when he was twelve, but this was a shock. Somehow, in the back of his mind, he foolishly imagined there would be Aunt Hortense to greet him with a suffocating hug and kiss, a hot Breton supper prepared for him by the round-faced cook, Jacques the spaniel curled up by the fire. But there would be none of that, for they were all dead.

Clémentine was asleep on his lap. He inadvertently roused her when he drew a great big sigh. She was always a light sleeper, just like him.

She rubbed her eyes. "Are we there yet?"

"Uh-huh. Look outside the window," he said, pressing a kiss to her temple.

"Oh! Look at it!" she pressed her face against the glass.

Raoul hesitated for a moment, fearing that Clémentine would start to cry and demand to go back home. But to his surprise, she reacted the opposite way.

"It's like a castle! Look, you can see the sea from the house! And oh, it's got a princess tower," she squealed.

"That's called a turret," he said, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

"Thank you, Papa! I love this house!'

He ruffled her hair. "I'm glad you do. Let's go inside."

As he stepped out of the carriage, he noticed the cobblestone pathway was cracked and sprouting with weeds. Had Claude really done nothing to maintain the house his mother had loved so much?

He hoisted Clémentine out of the carriage and on to his hip. He dreaded to see what the inside looked like. It seemed there would be even more of a financial investment than he previously thought. At least he could stimulate the local economy.

When they found the door locked. Raoul might have smacked himself on the forehead. Of course, they were to seek out Lunel, the caretaker. Down the hill, if he remembered correctly, there was a cottage where the groundskeeper had lived when Raoul was a boy. Perhaps this Lunel man would be there.

His intuition turned out to be right. There were lights on and a smoke coming out the chimney. He deposited Clémentine, sleepy despite her excitement, in Apolline's arms. He would make this trip alone.

As he stumbled down the jagged steps, he noticed that the caretaker had taken the time to keep up his cottage quite nicely. Sure, it could use a fresh coat of paint, but the leaves had been raked and the roof in one piece. He noticed lace curtains in the window, probably a woman's touch. As he rapped on the door, he felt rather peeved, he was ready to give the caretaker a piece of his mind for neglecting the big house in favor of his own lodgings, when the door swung open and the breath was knocked out of him.

Christine Daaé stood before him, her eyes wide as saucers. In all his dreams and visions of Christine, he had pictured her as she was as a maiden of sixteen, unruly curls loose about her shoulders, her round freckled cheeks flushed. But it was not a girl who greeted him at the door, it was a woman grown, in a modest cotton frock and with spectacles perched on her nose. Her hair, which had darkened to a honey color, had been swept up into a fashionable coif that emphasized the new angularity of her face. A slightly startling addition was a thin curved scar that extended from the corner of her lip up to her temple. But she was still recognizably the girl he had loved.

Raoul realized he had been staring at her for longer than was socially acceptable.

"Would you like to come in, Raoul?" she said quietly, giving him a small smile after what seemed like an interminable pause. She hesitated for a moment and wrapped him in a soft hug. Raoul felt more alive than he had for a while.

"Y-yes," he said. And he followed her into a room so unlike anything he had seen. From floor to ceiling it was packed with curiosities and artifacts. Chinese dragon sculptures, embroidered hanging silks in brilliant hues, a sizable collection of bejeweled music boxes. Raoul looked in wonderment. He was certainly well traveled compared to the average Frenchman, but this Lunel man clearly had seen far more of the world than him. Then he felt a realization and a stab to the gut. Christine must live here… with her husband.

"Christine, who did you invite in?" remarked a pile of blankets in the corner chair. The lump underneath the blankets stirred and Raoul realized there was a man. Raoul prided himself on not judging by appearances, but this man must be very sick, judging by his pallid complexion and gaunt face.

"This is Raoul, he was a childhood friend of mine," said Christine.

_Was _. Past tense.

"Pleased to meet you, you must be Lunel? I'm Raoul de Chagny" he said, biting his lip. "I'm so sorry to trouble you and disturb… whatever you were doing, but we've traveled a great deal and would like to go into the house."

"Ah, Monsieur le Vicomte, please call me Erik," the man said, throwing off the blankets and rising to his full height, perhaps two or three inches taller than Raoul. "Forgive the lack of a warm welcome, we weren't expecting you until next week. I'd be glad to let you in-" he fingered the ring of keys at his belt. "-but it might be chilly in there. I'll go light the fires, and you and anyone in your party can keep warm in here."

"Oh, thank you. I'm sorry about the mix up, my telegram must not have come in time."

"It doesn't make much difference to me, you needn't worry," the man's thin-lipped mouth contorted into an unsettling grin. "Excuse the inconvenience."

The caretaker tugged on an expertly tailored wool overcoat, rather extravagant for the humble salary Lunel received. Or perhaps Claude had paid him more.

"I'll send your traveling companions down," Lunel put a cap over his thinning jet colored hair. "There should be enough tea for everyone, and Christine has brought some delicious cakes."

With a nod, he left, leaving Raoul and Christine alone. There was a long pause, and then both spoke at once.

"I believe-" said Raoul at the same time as Christine said "How long-".

They both let out nervous giggles and Raoul felt more at ease.

"You go first," he chuckled.

"How long has it been? Nine, ten years?" she asked, taking his hand in hers. God, her touch felt exquisite, even a chaste brush of fingers was enough to make him dizzy.

"Twelve," Raoul said. "Thirteen in June." He went bright red, dropping his hand from hers. He must sound like a desperate idiot, immediately knowing the last time they saw each other.

"You always had a better head for dates than me," she grinned. "Most of the time I can't even remember what day of the week it is."

"Little Lotte let her mind wander…" he murmured, regretting it immediately. She must think him so awfully foolish.

Christine snorted. "Yes, always with my head in the clouds. When I heard that the Vicomte de Chagny was moving in, I figured the title still referred to your older brother. I hoped that perhaps I might catch a glimpse of you, never that we might meet like this."

"Ah… yes, Father has been dead nearly eight years now," he said, yanking at his mustache again."But you know, titles are meaningless anyway. We have no king, and no emperor for that matter, why should it make a difference who my ancestors are?"

"I'm sorry to hear about your father-"

"Don't be," he said. "He certainly would have shed no tears if you or I were in his place. How is your father? I would love to see him again."

"You'll have to visit the churchyard. My papa died not long after I last saw you," she cast her eyes downward.

"Oh, Christine, I'm so sorry.. I can't imagine…" he felt a lump in his throat and tears welling in his eyes. He had been so dismissive of his own father's passing, but Papa Daaé? The man had always been so kind to him, spending endless hours helping him scratch out tunes on the violin, despite the fact it was a futile effort.

Raoul tried to compose himself, ashamed that his emotions had gotten the better of him, but it took an embarrassingly long time. In reality, what seemed like hours was only a half a minute.

"There, there, Raoul," she laid a soft touch on his shoulder that sent a shock to his core. "He is at peace."

How twisted, that Christine had to comfort him over the death of her own father. He had been dead all this time, and he had no idea.

"If I had known… I would have come, I would have tried to do something," he finally choked out.

"Well, you didn't and there was nothing you could have done. It's perfectly all right. Papa wouldn't want you to mourn over him. At least, not for long," she cracked a tiny smile.

Raoul was about to take her hand again when the Chagny contingent burst through the door.

"Clémentine is cold," said Apolline. "We passed that interesting looking man on the way down, he said we were welcome to come in here and warm our bones."

Raoul could have struck himself. He should have thought of that earlier, God, how stupid he was. He noticed that Christine seemed uncomfortable all of a sudden . Probably at all the strangers in her home.

"Christine, this is my daughter, Clémentine. And that's Apolline holding her. And my valet Durand."

"Oh, you two know each other?" Apolline smiled.

"Yes, we used to spend summers together," said Raoul.

"As children," Christine added, an edge to her voice.

_Why did she feel the need to tell her that? _Raoul wondered. _Never mind. _

"I'm sure we will get along," Christine broke into a smile.

"I'm sure we will," Apolline curtsied, prompting Christine to raise an eyebrow.

"Is it all right if they sit down… Christine?" He wasn't sure if he should address her by her married name.

"Of course, Erik would want everyone to be comfortable."

Clémentine seemed to perk up again by the warmth of the fire. She gazed around the room in wonderment, finally fixating in the music boxes.

"Do children live here and play with those toys?" she asked Christine. Clémentine was being unusually bold today, usually she shied away from strangers.

Christine laughed. "Only the overgrown one who made them, Monsieur Erik. I think he would like you, he's always looking for an audience for his magic tricks. Would you like to play with one?"

"Oh, she might break it," Raoul interjected. He regretted saying anything by the frown on his daughter's face.

"Good thing that Erik is also a master tinkerer and repairman. I think he'd be delighted to have a child play with one. And Raoul, you were always interested in automata, weren't you?"

"Yes… I suppose. Well, if you're sure, Christine."

"Of course. Which one would you like? The monkey?"

Clémentine gave a little nod. "Yes, please, Miss Christine."

Raoul wanted to correct his daughter, perhaps Clémentine should call her Madame Lunel. But Christine seemed to take no offense.

Christine made her way over, carefully placing the music box on the table. The monkey perched on top of the silver box was recreated quite realistically, only in miniature. It honestly could have passed for taxidermy if it wasn't quite so tiny. When Christine wound it up, it began to crash a pair of cymbals together. Clémentine was delighted, clapping her hands along with the monkey. Raoul, always interested in mechanical creations, found himself enjoying how fluid the motions were.

The fiver of them were so engrossed in the music box, they didn't hear Lunel enter.

"Ah, so you like the monkey, Mlle. de Chagny?"

Clémentine, the only one not startled by his entrance, grinned. "Oh yes, Monsieur Erik! Does he have a name?"

"Truthfully, I never got around to naming him. Or deciding if he's a him. Would you like to take it with you?"

"We couldn't-" protested Raoul.

"Truthfully, he's just sitting there collecting dust. I don't really hold much of an attachment to the thing, he's not my best creation. I'd be much happier if someone who appreciated the monkey could have him instead."

Raoul felt deeply uncomfortable. "Let me at least give you some money for it…"

"There's no need," Lunel said firmly. Raoul found it hard to disagree. "Now, I will warn you, the house is in need of significant repairs. I've gotten rid of the mice and patched the roof, but unfortunately your dear cousin… prioritized other expenses."

"We've had a long day traveling, I think as long as it's warm enough, we'll be fine," Raoul said. He could not find it in him to hate Christine's husband.

"Well, in that case, perhaps you'd like to go inside. I'll let you in."

"Thank you," Raoul cast a glance at Christine. She was fiddling with her sleeves.

"I suppose I will see you soon, Christine?"

"Yes, I expect so," she smiled warmly. "Perhaps I will pay a visit tomorrow, if you don't mind?"

"Yes, I'd like that very much."

The rest of the traveling party gathered up their things, Clémentine refusing to let go of her new toy. Raoul pressed a kiss to Christine's hand, noticing there was no wedding ring but instead a red scar around her ring finger. _Peculiar. _

As they walked up the hill, Raoul couldn't help but look back at the cottage. Christine's face was pressed to the window. He waved again, but she ducked out of sight once she realized she'd been caught.


	2. Chapter 2

**_CHRISTINE_**

When Erik returned to finish their visit, Christine found herself quite withdrawn and distracted. Erik seemed to want to discuss plans for Sassan's upcoming visit, but Christine couldn't help but think about Raoul. Raoul, who had grown into such a handsome man, and who now had such a lovely little family, with his beautiful wife Apolline and adorable young daughter. But what did it matter to her?

Erik kept trying to engage her in conversation, but she'd let him do most of the talking, only nodding and smiling while her thoughts were consumed with Raoul. Her gaze kept drifting to the window.

"Now, you and the Vicomte, were you sweethearts? Is that why you keep glancing longingly towards the house?"

That got her attention and nearly made her drop her teacup. "No! Nothing of the sort!" she said indignantly. But that was a lie.

"All right, all right, calm yourself. Is that what's got you in a twist?"

"He seemed so droopy and sad. Like a lost puppy," Christine wound a loose lock of hair around her finger.

"He seemed enamored enough with you, in fact-"

"Stop it, will you?" she rolled her eyes. "Didn't you see the wedding ring? And his wife? And anyway, I've always regarded him as a brother."_ Another lie. _

"If you say so, Christine," his lips were pursed but there was still a twinkle in his eye.

The rest of the visit passed by without mention of the Vicomte de Chagny (as Christine knew it was proper to call him). Sassan, who lived primarily in Paris, would be coming any day now.

Erik and Sassan had known each other for a long time and were… quite intimate friends. But they quarreled and irritated each other so frequently that Sassan spent half his time away in Paris. Surprisingly, the distance seemed to improve their relationship and when they were together, they got along swimmingly. Erik joked that it was the only thing that kept them from killing each other. Christine couldn't really understand it, but then again she'd only been in one relationship. _One and a half. _

Christine rubbed the scar on her hand. Erik, as much as he was entirely skin and bones, had always had quite an appetite and had finished off the cakes, while Christine, who had been ravenous before, found herself feeling too sick to eat.

She told him goodbye after an hour, promising to visit tomorrow. Her secondhand straw bonnet, which would have been out of style even ten years ago, did very little in keeping her ears warm as she trudged along. She did not consider herself very vain, although she supposed most people wouldn't describe themselves as vain either, she longed for either something decaying less or perhaps a woolen sailor's cap that would keep the chill out properly. Hmm, Madame Marcon was always knitting, perhaps she could trade a few lessons for something a little warmer.

She began to think about Raoul again. Why anyone would give up Paris for Perros, she could not understand. At least Erik had health issues that prevented him from living there, but Raoul? Paris was everything Christine had dreamed of as a child, and she had relished any snippet of information she could cajole out of anyone she vaguely knew who had been there. Free lessons could also sometimes get her a souvenir if she was lucky.

At the end of the bed, there was a chest Papa built, intending for her to keep her bridal trousseau in (although he had assured her that she didn't need to marry). There was plenty of room in the box, for she had long ago sold anything she had made or bought in anticipation of a marriage. She had no need for embroidered handkerchiefs or a lace veil anymore.

In the chest, she kept all her mementos and hopes and dreams, as if they were secrets she needed to hide from somebody. Well, she did need to keep them to herself, but it wasn't as if she needed to hide any of them. She lived alone and had no visitors, but it would have felt wrong to display her sizable collection of picture postcards or maps of Paris or even the little brass Arc de Triomphe (a gift from Sassan, hesitantly accepted).

She hadn't entirely given up hope of moving to Paris, although it was looking more and more unlikely as each year passed. Before Papa had gotten sick, he had saved assiduously so they could leave Perros, and Christine could enter the opera conservatory once she was old enough. But life had gotten in the way. Papa began to cough and was too sick to play the violin at fairs anymore. As their only source of income dried up, Christine had no choice but to dip into the jar they kept their savings in. Papa had protested, but she believed that if the medicine was expensive, it must work. Papa was dead within six months, and she had to use the remaining funds to pay for a funeral. After he was buried, Christine hadn't known what to do besides walking into the sea with stones in her pockets. It had only been the charity of the Cariou family that kept her from complete poverty, and that had some quite nasty strings attached.

That whole experience had instilled in her a desire to never accept charity, and it was. why she wouldn't let Sassan pay for her to spend a week in Paris, as he had offered so many times. He was a good fellow and wanted to help her out of the goodness of his heart, but she could never be in debt to someone ever again

The Paris fund jar was now about a quarter full, but Christine knew she would probably need to withdraw from it again soon. The hinges on her spectacles were getting quite loose and she wasn't sure if they would be able to be mended again.

She usually tried to avoid stopping at any store in town after she had finished her daily tasks. It was foolish to go into the bakery and stare at the chocolate desserts that were simply not practical, when she could do just as well with the discounted old black bread in the cupboard at home, never mind that she had bought it three days ago. And the secondhand shop was another temptation because there were so many lovely things that she simply did not need. But today, despite herself, she found herself walking into the Desjardin's shop as if drawn supernaturally.

Monsieur Desjardins and his wife would pay a pittance for practically anything you didn't want anymore but could be useful to someone else. Christine, who hadn't had a frock that wasn't second or third hand since she was a girl, delighted in the bargains she could find. The shop was stuffed to the gills with clothes, kitchen wares, trinkets, anything you could think of. Most of it was rather disorganized, crammed into boxes under clothes racks, or piled into precarious stacks. But, if you dug hard enough, you'd find exactly the right thing.

The bell on the door chimed when Christine walked in, but no one was there to greet her except the pudgy cat who slept on the counter. Christine scratched his ears and began her search. What she was looking for, she could not say.

New (to her) boots would be a practical investment, so she headed to where the shoes were usually kept, although truthfully, they might be anywhere. She found a pile of mismatched shoes in the corner, under the rack of men's coats, and next to a pile of yellowing women's fashion magazines. She could vaguely hear the hum of a conversation in the back room. She could recognize Madame Desjardins' voice, but not the woman she was talking to, although she could feel a vague sense of dread.

"The Comte de Chagny, they say, had a new favorite girl at the opera every six months, until one of them got knocked up. At least that's what I read in the papers," said the unknown voice.

The mention of Raoul's brother made her ears prick up. Still, she tried desperately to ignore the conversation. Here was a perfectly nice boot that looked like it might fit if only she could find its match.

Now Madame Desjardins was talking. "How noble of him, pardon the pun. I hear he's got quite a little brood of bastards. I wonder if the Vicomte is very much the same. I hear the cousin he bought the house from is quite the playboy. He gave his wife something dreadfully nasty, syphilis I think, picked up from one of his whores. I heard it from her lady's maid when the happy couple visited last, two years ago."

"Well, that cousin, let the place go to shit, pardon. My son used to go there all the time when he was small and the Vicomte were playmates, best friends even. I'll have to ask him. I can't imagine that runt of a boy having such a sordid past, but why on earth would he come here?"

Listening to that lie made Christine realize exactly who Madame Desjardins was speaking to. She felt even sicker. She got up to leave, hoping to escape without being noticed, but banged her head on the coat rack, knocking over the whole thing as well as the stack of magazines. The loud thump startled her even more.

Lying slightly dazed on the floor, she became aware of the two women standing above her with a look of consternation. Yvonne Cariou and Madame Desjardins did not offer a hand.

"Oh dear little Christine, what have you gotten yourself into?" Yvonne clucked. The woman was old enough to be her mother, but the hint of affection in her voice was condescending.

She scrambled to her feet. "I am so sorry, I had a fright, I thought I saw a mouse."

"Mouse?" Madame Desjardins flinched. "I knew this would happen one day."

Christine tried desperately to pick up what she had knocked over, but Madame Desjardins stopped her with a firm hand.

"Never mind that. I'll pick it up."

Sheepish, and wanting nothing more than to get out of the shop, she picked a magazine at random. "Could I buy this?"

"A wedding magazine, huh, Christine? In the market again for a husband?" Yvonne smiled, although Christine shuddered.

"Uh… I just like the pictures," she felt horribly flushed. How stupid she was. But it was too late to back out now.

"I see," Madame Desjardins pursed her lips. "I'll give it to you for a _sou _"

Christine dug in her pocket for her purse and produced the coin. It wasn't hard to find, considering how little money was in there.

Blushing more than ever, she left with a nod, humiliated and one sou poorer.

Any qualms she had about asking Raoul for a job dissipated. It would be at least a few months before she could visit the second-hand shop again, once the rawness of her embarrassment had healed. In the meantime, she'd have to buy from somewhere else.

She'd pay a call on Raoul tomorrow.

_**RAOUL**___

God, Claude had left the house in ruins. If he thought the exterior was in disrepair, it didn't prepare him for the inside. It was barely habitable, with peeling wallpaper and cracking plaster, broken windows boarded up. At least it was relatively clean, although the rugs could probably use a good beating. Raoul resolved to begin addressing the many issues the next day.

The nursery was in such disarray that it only made sense for Clémentine to sleep with him in his bed. He just hoped it wouldn't become a habit again. It wasn't that he minded his daughter sleeping in bed next to him, it was just that all the parenting advice he had heard warned against it.

Lunel came over in the morning by his request. Christine truly had such a strange choice in a husband, although Raoul could not find it in himself to hate this man.

"And what exactly have your responsibilities been up to this point?" Raoul said, surveying the fireplace for loose bricks. It was easier than making eye contact.

"Well, your cousin essentially paid for me to make sure the house stayed standing and not much else. I would write to him about issues with the house, but he was most concerned with preventing vagrants and schoolboys from breaking in, he didn't give a damn about the preservation of the floors or the crown molding. Forgive me, Monsieur le Vicomte, I do not wish to speak ill of him-"

"Please do speak ill of him, Monsieur Lunel," Raoul's mouth curved into a small smile. "Claude is an idiot and I hold no affection for him, only his late mother."

"I'd much rather you call me Erik unless you find that too familiar."

"All right, Erik, as long as you call me Raoul. Then I'd say we're even," he outstretched a hand.

Erik took his hand with overeager force. "That sounds fair."

"I intend to fix up this place as quickly as possible, and with no expense spared. I want it to be like it was when I was a child. But truthfully, I'm not sure I know enough about construction to properly supervise the renovation. I trust you know more about the area than I do, and could help me find someone to be in charge."

"If you don't mind, I'd suggest myself for the job. In the past, I have worked as a foreman."

"That sounds perfect, especially since you live so close. And you and your wife-"

"Wait a moment. What did you just say?" Erik turned his gaze directly to him. Raoul suddenly felt like a butterfly under glass.

"You live so near and you and your wife-"

"Raoul," he said, with all the seriousness in the world. "Who do you think my wife is?"

He felt tremendously stupid as he said "Christine?"

Erik made a valiant effort to remain straight-faced for a moment before bursting into hysterical, booming laughter. It went on for entirely too long and made Raoul deeply uncomfortable.

After a minute or so, Erik wiped tears from his eyes, and his cackles tapered off. "No, no, I assure you. I am a lifelong bachelor and intend to keep it that way. Miss Daae and I remain purely friends."

Raoul's face was hot as he fiddled with his wedding ring (an artifact he kept on out of guilt). "And Christine's husband…"

"She hasn't got one and as far as I know, she's never had one. Her own choice, I might add."

So what was Christine doing keeping company with a bachelor? He pushed that thought to the back of his mind for now.

"Well, thank you for clearing that up," he mumbled, anxiously shoving his hands in his pockets. "Do you think you could look into getting electricity installed for me first? It's awfully gloomy in here, especially with the weather being so poor."

"I'll see what I can do," Erik gave another friendly but disconcerting smile. "I'll go into town and see. Good day, Raoul."

Watching the oddly lanky fellow set off, Raoul was still unsure what to think of the strange man, so cheerful and constantly humming yet looking almost corpse-like. He decided he liked Erik a lot better now that he knew he wasn't Christine's husband, but he still felt uneasy that Christine passed the time alone with a bachelor. How odd.

He glanced out the window and saw the sun peeking out from behind the clouds. Perhaps some fresh air would do him some good, their attempts to air out the musty house were unsuccessful so far. He found Apolline trying in vain to braid Clémentine's hair in the sunroom and asked if they'd like to go for a walk.

Once they were all bundled up, Clémentine's hand in his, they set off for the beach. Apolline's boots were quite unsuited for walking on the sand and Raoul almost advised her to remove them entirely, before realizing that could be construed as inappropriate. For once, he avoided putting his foot in his mouth.

Clémentine tugged on his hand. "Papa, can we go swimming?"

"It's much too cold for that, darling. But when the weather is nicer, we will. Do you see that rock over there, doesn't it look like a chair or a throne?"

Clémentine modded, eyes alight with the possibilities of new games.

"Miss Christine and I used to climb all over it, pretending we were all sorts of things. Mermaids, usually. But one time, the tide came in, and we were trapped on there without wearing our bathing costumes. At least, I was. I was too timid to jump back into the water, and my dear friend Christine had to get her father to rescue me."

"You were very silly, Papa! You love water," she giggled.

"Yes, I was wasn't I?" Raoul laughed. He picked her up and swung her around. "But not as silly as you are when you won't eat your vegetables."

He hoisted her onto her shoulders. Clémentine was growing up so quickly, and soon he wouldn't be to toss her around like this. The thought alone almost put him in a sour mood. Still, it was hard to be glum, despite the weather, when his daughter was so happy.

They made their way down the beach, Raoul stopping to point out the landmarks from his childhood, from the stone staircase carved by nature to the cove where he scraped his knee nearly every single time. Clémentine asked to be let down so she could collect seashells, and Raoul obliged, content to watch her forever.

After fifteen minutes, Apolline (who was now carrying her boots in her hand after falling on her face) suggested they return to the house before Clémentine caught a chill.

As they turned around, Raoul caught sight of a recognizable figure dressed in a cloak that might have once been black but had now faded to gray._ Christine _

He longed to run to her, to pretend things were like they used to be. But their friendship had been changed irrevocably by the passage of years. Things couldn't just go back to the way they were.

Clémentine surprised him by bounding ahead of him, Apolline trying desperately to catch up.

"Miss Christine! Your hair is so pretty when it's long!"

Christine clapped a hand over the back of her head.

"Oh dear, have my pins fallen out?"

Indeed they had and the wild curls he had once brushed for her were now blowing in the wind. Raoul felt a lump in his throat. _What the hell was wrong with him_?

Christine dropped to her knees and searched frantically around the sand. "Oh goodness..."

Raoul attempted to aid in her search, scrambling over to help her dig through the sand. "Did you drop something important or just the pins?"

She glanced up at him. "Pins are important, especially when they cost a whole lesson's wages for a new pack. I try to reuse them as much as possible."

He bit his lip. "I didn't mean to sound dismissive, I only meant that... I'm sure there are pins in the house, from Aunt Hortense or one of my sisters... You needn't get sand all over yourself."

Clémentine crouched down, digging now too, giggling as if it were some kind of game. All she seemed to accomplish was getting her new gloves soiled.

Christine let out a sigh. "I suppose it would be impossible to find them, they could have fallen anywhere."

Raoul extended a hand to help her to her feet. "Come inside, and we'll find you some pins."

"All right, I suppose your wife might have some?"

Raoul felt sick all of a sudden._ How much did Christine know? _He swallowed. "No, my wife never had the fortune to visit here before she died."

Christine covered her mouth with her hand. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I only thought that... I assumed-" she pointed to Apolline before dropping her hand.

"Apolline?" he was confused for a moment, then felt a laugh in his throat.

Christine wrapped her arms around herself, blushing. Raoul felt guilty immediately

"You'll have to forgive me, Christine. It is slightly amusing that your thought dear Apolline, Clémentine's nanny, was married to me. Poor Manon, my wife, she died when Clémentine was born. She has been a great help, and she does resemble my daughter, but as far as I know, they are not related. But what's really funny," he grasped her gloved hand and adopted a conspiratorial tone. "What's really funny that I assume you were Madame Lunel."

Her eyes widened for second before she burst into laughter as well. They shared a lovely moment until Clémentine tugged on Raoul's coat.

"I want to go in now, Papa," she said.

Apolline, who seemed deeply uncomfortable by the proceedings, took Clémentine's hand.

"If it pleases you, Monsieur le Vicomte, I'll take Clémentine inside if you still wish to talk with … Mademoiselle Daaé."

"Yes, that would be perfect," he said. Try as hard as he could, he could never get Apolline to call him by his first name. He crouched down before Clémentine. "Will you be good?"

She nodded. "Promise to tell me a story tonight, Papa?"

"Of course," he kissed her forehead.

"Goodbye, Miss Christine!" she said before skipping off, Apolline trailing behind her.

"Your daughter is so beautiful and so well mannered," Christine said at last after an interminable silence.

"Much better behaved than two children looking for korrigans and getting horribly dirty in the process"

"Or poking around in dusty attics, looking for treasures…" Christine said dreamily.

They drifted into a comfortable silence, for a moment it was like no time had passed. He impulsively took her hand again.

"You said something earlier about lessons? Violin, perhaps?"

"No, you know just as well as me that I was even more hopeless at the fiddle than you, Raoul," she said. "Father is buried with his 'second child'. I teach voice and piano mostly, I took a correspondence course in teaching. And I play the organ for the church. That's actually why I was coming here."

"To play the organ?" he said stupidly.

"No, to ask you for a job. I hear there is a position open for someone to teach music to little Clémentine."

"Oh, Christine, I could never have you work for me… You're a friend, like.. ahem, family!"

He could tell by the tight-lipped expression on her face that she didn't like his answer. He became aware that despite how lovely she looked, her straw hat was battered and had clearly seen better days.

She gritted her teeth. "Raoul, I could really use this job. Madame Archambault doesn't think her twins are learning fast enough, even though they are both tone-deaf and it's only been a month, so she's canceling her lessons."

"If it's money you want-" he started, before she indignantly interrupted him.

She shook her head vigorously. "I don't want charity, Raoul. I'll accept hairpins, but not much else. I probably don't compare to some fancy conservatory-trained Parisian-"

"That's not why I said it, it's not that at all. There's no one I trust more to teach her than you… I just felt sort of funny about being your employer."

"We're friends, first and foremost. And I can see how you treat your staff, like family, eh?"

"Yes, well, Clémentine never had a mother, much like me, so Apolline is the closest thing. I suppose I should call her Mademoiselle Druset, but truly it feels so odd and formal. Of course, she refuses to call me Raoul." He stared at the ground, kicking up a little sand.

"I am so sorry to hear about your wife, Raoul…" she took his hand. "How awful, I didn't mean to bring up bad memories."

"It's all right, Christine," he said, meaning it truthfully. "Like you said yesterday, there's nothing you could have done. I should have invited you to the wedding."

At the time, Raoul had agonized overextending an invitation to Christine, ultimately deciding that he could very well lose his nerve to go through with it if he looked into the crowd during the ceremony and saw her.

"Never mind that…" she wiped a tear from his cheek with the pad of her thumb.

_Oh god, he'd started to cry. Idiot. _

He cleared his throat. "I am sorry… I prefer not to think about her, although it's hard when her daughter looks more and more like her every day."

"We needn't discuss it, then," she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

"Would you like to come in?" he took in a deep breath. "We'll get you some pins and we can set up a lesson time. I will warn you that despite Erik's efforts, it is truly a mess in there."

"Do you have a watch with you? What time is it, if you don't mind me asking?" she fidgeted with her hat.

He fished it out of his jacket pocket. "Nearly half-past ten, why?"

"I've got to get to my next lesson, I'm so sorry." She seemed pained.

"But what about the pins?"

"I can't be late for this one, it's a twenty-minute walk and I need to be there in fifteen. I'll make do."

"Wait a moment," he said, producing one of Clementine's ribbons from his pocket. "At least you could tie your hair back, perhaps?"

"Thank you," she smiled. "You're always saving the day."

She gave him a kiss on the cheek that seemed to shock both of them. Raoul felt something in the pit of his stomach that he hadn't felt for years. Her face was crimson as she bid him a good day and ran off.

All he could think of was the red scarf and another kiss.


	3. Chapter 3

_**RAOUL**_

Over the next three days, work began on the house in earnest, and Erik indeed did make a more than competent foreman. He had this natural joviality that carried him through life and was much more skilled at communicating his thoughts than Raoul could ever hope to be. Erik could even understand vague statements Raoul made and run with them. Raoul was musing (more to himself than to anyone else) that when he was a child, the nursery had rabbits and birds in country clothes on the wallpaper, but it had since been either removed or papered over with a horrid puce colored paisley pattern. Erik, of his own volition, and on his own time, managed to peel off the corner of the puce wallpaper and discovered the pattern from Raoul's childhood was underneath, still mostly preserved and presentable. Raoul wasn't even miffed that Erik hadn't thought to consult him first, so pleased was he that he thought he might start crying as Erik touched up the faded portion by the door with a set of paints. But that would have been ridiculous, getting choked up like that.

Clémentine seemed to be adjusting well enough to her new home. She found endless amusement in exploring the house, and Raoul had to admit it warmed his heart to watch his daughter investigate the false step on the grand staircase (perfect for hiding treasure, Raoul delightedly told her) or falling asleep on the window seat in a pool of sunshine. He only wished he could find a playmate for her, one that was her age. But she appeared content enough with what she had.

She came running to him one day, all flustered excitement and red cheeks, tugging the much taller Erik by the hand. "Look, Papa, Monsieur Erik can make my dolls talk! He doesn't move his mouth but they talk! He's magic!"

Sheepishly, Erik shoved his free hand in his pocket. "I apologize, there was a lull in the work and Miss Clémentine needed me to fix her music box… then I suppose I got distracted…"

Raoul realized by the pained expression on his face that Erik half-expected a scolding or a dismissal for wasting time._ That's right, _ he thought. _ I'm technically his employer. _But, with warmth in him that he only felt sporadically, Raoul ruffled his daughter's hair and asked to see the trick.

Ever since then, Clémentine's greatest passion became preventing Erik from doing his work. She constantly cajoled the poor man into not only performing magic tricks for her but also telling clearly embellished stories from his time abroad or drawing her pictures of any sort of creature she could dream up. Although admittedly Erik didn't seem to mind all that much. Raoul, despite himself, was also fascinated by how the odd-looking fellow could make a handkerchief seemingly turn into a rose and back again or cast a shadow with his hand that looked like a dove (along with the accompanying cooing noises). Raoul considered himself a rational person (at least when it came to matters of science), but he truly could not figure out how all the tricks in Erik's arsenal were accomplished. He assumed Apolline was relieved to have less responsibility for entertaining her young mistress.

Raoul occupied most of his free time (when he wasn't writing checks or interviewing potential servants or spending time with Clémentine) reading. The library books were a bit mildewed, but still, there was plenty he hadn't read yet. He decided on a whim to learn Dutch, figuring it couldn't be much harder to teach himself than Swedish or German. Having retreated largely from public life, he had given up most of the entertainment most men of his status enjoyed. He'd never had much interest in going out and getting horribly drunk or going to the opera anyway, and since he had no interest in leaving his daughter behind to return to the sea, he contented himself by soaking up as much knowledge as he could, from languages to natural sciences to literature to philosophy. He'd even tried his hand at writing his poetry of his own, but found his work lacking and too cloying and sentimental. The less said about his attempt at a novel (which read more like a penny dreadful) the better. But today, his plans to study were abandoned as Durand informed him that his automobile had arrived. It had been such a pain to ship it from Paris, but he knew it would be worth it.

Raoul had very few vices. A glass of wine at dinner, perhaps, or a scotch to calm his nerves, but never more than that. He couldn't stand cigar smoke, although the smell of Philippe's pipe made him nostalgic. He had never tried opium or morphine or cocaine, after seeing how it affected his shipmates. Gambling had no appeal to him, after losing fifty francs at a horse race, he had no desire to test his odds again.

As for sex, it was not all it was cracked up to be. He had lost his virginity at twenty-two in Copenhagen to a local girl named Freja. He regretted it as soon as he had rolled off of her. They didn't speak any common languages, but his friend Alain had a rudimentary knowledge of Norwegian and that was close enough, so he acted as an interpreter. Raoul didn't need his help understanding her in the bedroom, she kept repeating some curse words (some that another Scandinavian girl he had known not as quite intimately had taught him) as if he was actually bringing her pleasure. He had found out later that Philippe had offered five hundred francs for Alain to arrange a meeting like this and another four hundred for the "lucky" girl who relieved Raoul of his embarrassing innocence. He had been quite angry at the time, but now only felt a dull ache when he considered what had happened to flaxen-haired Freja whose beautiful brown eyes only made him think that they were the wrong color.

His nights with his wife were more enjoyable, but their couplings were more of formality, something they both thought newlyweds should do. The act only appealed to the shameful part of his brain, after climaxing he felt a pervading sense of intense guilt only Catholics knew, despite the fact he had "made love" to his lawfully wedded wife. He had remained faithful to Manon, those eight months at sea, and in her memory, he would never lie with anyone again.

Still, he needed to get adrenaline somehow, to lift the fog even a little bit. The only time he felt like a real person was when he was around Clémentine, whose endless curiosity and love for life brought him his only real joy. His siblings kept trying to control his life, between Philippe parading endless opera girls in front of him and his sisters playing Emma Woodhouse in an attempt to get him married off again. What difference did it make to them if he should take a lover or wife or twenty wives (like those annoying Americans he met in the Pacific) or be alone forever? Yes, they were concerned for their brother who had become all but a recluse, only appearing in public when absolutely forced to. Constance had just about lost her mind when she had noticed the eye-shaped tattoo on his wrist (she didn't know about any of the other ones) and had been ready to kill him when she learned about the automobile.

He had always enjoyed mechanical marvels ever since Philippe had come back from one of his sojourns to Italy with a music box shaped like a golden birdcage. There was a little bird inside that actually moved when the crank was turned. He had even considered becoming a mechanic himself, before his father, in a rare display acknowledging his existence, had walloped him on the head and told him gruffly that Chagnys didn't work. But he had kept up his interest in machinery, even had subscriptions to several magazines on the topic, and of course, was enchanted by the concept of a horseless carriage. He had gone to an automobile race (betting no money, of course) partially to hopefully see that insufferable Comte de Dion lose, but that goal was quickly forgotten when he saw the Peugeot Type Seven come in second place. He hadn't felt that excited (or honestly felt anything that strong) in ages, so he found Monsieur Peugeot and practically begged to give him his money.

Driving was easier than it looked. Raoul had ridden horses as a child, although not for some time after a nasty fall, and he found using an automobile much simpler. A horse was an unpredictable animal, a car was easier to make sense of. Even when it broke down, he had a manual to refer to. On a good day, he could get the engine to go twenty kilometers an hour.

Even though the Type Seven could fit three passengers, he usually drove alone. It was too risky for Clémentine, and as her father, he had more regard for her life than his own. Philippe, adventurous as he was, declined his invitations after one particularly bumpy ride. Asking Constance would be the equivalent of asking her to swim the Channel and Amalie-Louise was something of a bohemian who might find it interesting if not for the petrol fumes upsetting her delicate senses during her frequent pregnancies. Raoul avoided spending time with his idiot brothers-in-law as much as he could, both regarded him as still a boy, much as his sisters did, but it was much less endearing coming from Armand and Henri. He had coaxed Durand into riding with him a few times, but he could tell by his valet's white-knuckled grip on the dashboard that he would rather not.

So, it was just Raoul and the open road, and to be honest, he preferred it that way. For one, he hated the silly looking outfit and goggles he had to wear to keep the dust and flies out of his face. The roar of the engine made it impossible to have a conversation at the speeds Raoul preferred to go at and he relished being alone rather than the silent judgment of whoever might be riding with him. The distressing thoughts that constantly plagued him melted away just a little bit and Raoul had to use all his focus on staying on the road and avoiding running into the peasants who would stare at him with slack-jawed wonder. Perhaps he should have invited the village boys to join him. They would run along beside the automobile as long as their stamina would permit, peppering him with questions that were barely audible above the engine.

The roads near Perros were a bit rougher than the ones on the outskirts of Paris and the wind was harsher too. Still, he felt a huge breath of relief to get behind the wheel again, feel the wind in his face and the bad memories melt away, even for a fleeting moment.

He had probably set out too late and Raoul was so consumed by his thoughts and the passing scenery that he hadn't realized it was nearly dusk and he out to turn around before he ran out of fuel. That thought, of course, distracted him from the woman walking towards him in the middle of the road. He nearly swerved off the road to avoid her, but she removed herself as an obstacle by diving into the ditch on the side of the road:

He pulled over, shutting off the engine. "Are you all right, madame?" he called, getting out to offer a hand. The woman was sprawled out in a heap and cursing.

A steely gaze met his and he felt taken aback until he removed his goggles and the features on Christine's face softened.

"Raoul?" she furrowed her brow.

"What are you doing, jumping into ditches, Christine? Here, take my hand, and let's get you out."

"What on earth are you doing, riding whatever contraption that is? I was afraid I'd be struck by it" she spluttered, quite charmingly though, despite her irritation.

"It's an automobile, Christine, and one of the greatest loves of my life, so far," he laughed. She finally took his offered hand, yanking hard enough to pull herself upright that it brought their noses within two inches of each other. She averted her eyes and let go of his hand to brush off some dirt.

"Well, it frightened me. It sounds like a steel dragon and I've never seen anything like that before," she adjusted her hat. "My god, Raoul, why would you ever get on one of those things!"

"It's much faster than a carriage, won't you please let me give you a ride home?" he was almost giddy with the prospect. "I've got a hat with a veil to protect your eyes from the dust, and a coat as well, although it isn't very stylish and meant for a man."

"You think I give one jot about looking stylish when I could die on that thing?" Still, she looked curiously and hesitantly touched the seat.

"I'll go as slow as I can, I promise. It's not dangerous at all, or I wouldn't invite you."

She seemed to consider her options for a moment. "I suppose I could try… but if I don't like it I'm getting off."

"Preferably you'll alert me first, instead of jumping off?" he gave her a small smile.

She laughed and allowed him to fit her with the hat. He ignored the stirrings in the pit of his stomach when she grasped his upper arm as if her life depended on it. She shrieked with excitement when he started the motor and Raoul remembered what it was like to be young and innocent again.

_**CHRISTINE**_

She'd never had many chances to ride in regular carriages, but this was truly something else. Raoul animatedly discussed the specifics and mechanics of the "automobile" but she could barely make out what he was saying over the racket the engine was making. She kept casting what she hoped were furtive glances to see the smile on his face, remembering the boy he once was.

Poor Raoul, a widower whose wife had died the same way as his mamma. Christine wasn't sure why her sadness about Raoul's loss was tinged with another, nearly unrecognizable emotion. Poor, motherless Clémentine, as well.

The Raoul she used to know would have come bounding up to her and given her a great big bear hug. He would have spent hours catching up with her, instead of quick conversations here and there. Things had changed. He was no longer the gangly, yet round-faced boy she knew. Poor dear.

Riding in the automobile was much easier than walking, even if it was bumpy, and before long they reached the cottage. Raoul dutifully helped Christine down, taking her embarrassingly worn gloves hand. She felt self-conscious as he opened the gate, which needed to be replaced ten years ago.

"So little has changed!" he remarked. "It's just like it used to be. It's even painted the same yellow."

Christine felt pained. She knew Raoul didn't mean to come off as insulting, and in fact, was completely oblivious to the possible implication, but the reason it was still the same color was that it had never been repainted in the first place. If he had looked closer he would see the paint was peeling.

Not wanting to say goodbye quite yet, Christine racked her brains for a reason for Raoul to stay longer. Why couldn't things be like the way they were?

He was halfway to getting back in his strange carriage when she blurted out he should come in for supper. Christine felt immediately foolish and couldn't remember if she had anything to eat in the house.

Raoul paused. "I'm sure there's something for me at home, I couldn't trouble you for that."

Just come in, she silently begged with her eyes. "Well, you could come in… just to see what it looks like on the inside."

It probably wouldn't be proper for a widower to enter the house of an unchaperoned unmarried woman. But when had she ever cared for what was proper? And for that matter, when had the old Raoul?

Raoul seemed to hesitate for a moment. "I suppose, just for a moment, two minutes maybe. And then, I really must get back to my daughter."

She led him inside, turning on the gas lamp. He was so tall now that he had to duck to cross the threshold. As her eyes adjusted to the light, Christine cursed herself for not picking up first. There was a pair of stockings tossed over the back of the chair, her breakfast dishes were still on the table, her bed wasn't made. She hoped he couldn't see her flushed embarrassment.

"It's like stepping into my childhood," he remarked, tracing Papa's carvings on the wooden beams with his finger. "It's as if I only stepped out for a few minutes and not over a decade."

She laid a hand on his shoulder. "Well, since Papa passed, I haven't had much heart to change things." _ Or money. _ "His clothes are still in the wardrobe."

He turned to her. "I am so sorry you had to go through that alone. If only- I should have kept in touch."

"I should have made more of an effort," she said. "But you're here now, and things could be like they used to be."

Raoul had a dark look in his eyes. "They can't go back to how they used to be. Not entirely…"

She wasn't sure if Raoul was angry, but she felt a lump in her throat.

"Well, of course," Christine said quickly. "I don't suppose it would be fitting for a vicomte to run into the sea fully clothed or to picnic in the attic. I just meant… I want to have a real conversation with you. Be friends and not acquaintances."

"Of course we're friends. As close as friends can be," he said, the miserable look on his face suddenly replaced by a tentative smile. "I value your friendship more than anything, and already you have proven yourself more sympathetic to my situation than even my family."

She tugged on her collar, which suddenly felt like it was strangling her. Perhaps she had revealed too much, for Raoul let out a gasp.

"What happened to your neck? Christine?"

She felt utterly humiliated, hot tears on her face. He had seen one of the scars she tried so hard to hide. She scrambled to think of an excuse, for the only other people who had seen them knew the origin all too well.

"It's a silly story you know how clumsy I am," she found herself blurting out. "And I managed to cut my neck chopping carrots for soup. Don't ask me how that's possible when you have slippery fingers like mine, you can't believe the accidents I've gotten into."

She could tell he remained unconvinced by her bald-faced lie. Raoul reached his hand out hesitantly, almost withdrawing for a moment, before gingerly putting two fingers on the long-closed wound. Surely he could feel her pulse, her heart beating as fast as a hummingbird's. She would have never thought him this bold, to touch a lady, or the approximation of a lady, like this. But it was because they were friends.

"Poor Christine," he said. "Whatever happened, I'm sorry."

She closed her eyes, trying to staunch the tears, but he took away his fingers, so suddenly as if he'd touched a branding iron.

"I really must go," he straightened himself out, adjusting his coat. "You must come to supper soon. And the piano tuner is coming on Thursday, would you come the next morning for a lesson?"

"Of course," she said, plastering on a smile as if they'd passed the last few minutes discussing whether it would rain tomorrow.

"I will see you very soon, Christine," he said, taking her hand and kissing it. With a nod, he left, taking one final glance before crossing the threshold.

Once he was out of sight, she fell onto the bed, although tears would not come. She was such a foolish, stupid woman. She thought she had left such feelings so far behind her. Daniel had taught her that.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

**I know I haven't updated in way too long. Life has gotten in the way! But I wanted to get this up for Raoulstine week over on Tumblr. Hopefully, I can finish up my other one-shot WIP as well. Thank you to everyone who left comments in the meanwhile.**

**I am really looking for a beta as there were too many mistakes in the last chapter!**

** You can read about Raoul's car and the real race he attended on Wikipedia. The Comte de Dion, a real person, is despised by Raoul for his position as an "anti-Dreyfusard" (and holding vehement anti-Semitic views) during the Dreyfus Affair. If you haven't heard about that, I would suggest reading up on it because it will become a plot point in later chapters.**

**This story takes place in roughly 1896, I know there is a lot of debate on when the events of the Leroux novel and the ALW musical take place. I am kind of fudging the details so certain historical events coincide with my story, more on that later. Both Raoul and Christine are twenty-seven, I know that doesn't entirely line up with their ages in Leroux, but hey, it's my story and an AU besides that.**


	4. Chapter 4

**_CHRISTINE_**

Good things could never last very long, Christine had always thought. That was especially true after she left her last lesson. The fishing had been so poor this year that another family could no longer afford to pay her. It wasn't as if she had unlimited clientele to choose from, either.

As she was walking home, Lise Moigne waved her down. The woman, a few years older than Christine, had always remained friendly, even after Christine's dramatic falling out with Lise's cousins, which included Daniel. Lise's friendliness didn't seem put on either, she seemed to genuinely care about Christine.

"Christine!" Lise kissed both of her cheeks. "It's been too long. But I have good news, another student for you is on the way! Matthieu and I are having a baby!"

Poor Lise had miscarried or given birth to a stillborn child several times now. She kept a brave face on, but Christine could tell she was desperate for a child.

"That's wonderful news, Lise," she said. "I'm so happy for you."

"I just wanted to warn you, my cousin is coming next weekend with one of his other doctor friends, one who knows a lot about babies and can help me, so perhaps it would make things easier for you if you laid low while he's here."

The concerned look on Lise's face had no malice. It was clear the woman was looking out for her.

"Thank you, thank you very much," Christine said, repressing any stupid emotions that might have flared up otherwise. "I will keep that in mind."

They made small talk for a bit before Lise remembered she was cooking dinner. And Christine continued on her way. By the time she reached home, she was ready to fall asleep, even though it was still light out.

She had been so consumed with her lessons and worrying about other things (which definitely did not include Raoul) that she nearly forgot that Sassan was coming. She initially intended to go over at six, giving the two lovers time to reconnect, but by the time she remembered, it was half-past seven. It was amazing how she could while away the hours doing absolutely nothing but fretting about how she would pay to fix the roof, frantically going over her ledger to try to find the money in her meager income. She'd have to take another loan.

The air was noticeably getting cooler, she mused as she walked. Her gloves, mended so many times that hardly any of the original material was left, did little to keep her hands warm, so she shoved them in her pocket. Christine breathed a sigh of relief when Erik's cottage came into clearer view.

She knocked, casting what she hoped was a furtive glance at the larger house. She might have caught a glimpse of someone in the window, but she dismissed it as wishful thinking.

Sassan was the one to open the door and she flew into his arms.

"I've missed you so much!" she said. "I've so much to tell you."

"Erik has told me his half of it," Sassan patted her head. "But I hear the new master of the house is a friend of yours."

"Yes," she sighed. "A good friend, and nothing more, despite what Erik might tell you."

"Just like Sassan and I are good friends," Erik chortled, kissing Sassan on the cheek in a move that was clearly not platonic. "Actually, I think we bat our lashes and sigh at each other less than you and Raoul."

"I've told you before," Christine sputtered. "I see no need to give up my independence. I am much happier on my own. And even if I were interested in Raoul, which I am categorically not-"

"Could have fooled me-" Erik coughed, prompting Sassan to lightly hit his arm.

"Let me finish. Raoul would never, ever think that way about me."

Sassan began to speak. "Well, as long as you think-"

"What would you think, Sassan, of a man who asks me twice as many questions about Miss Daaé here than he does about what I plan to do about his house? He follows me around sometimes and the topic always turns to Christine. We could be talking about any subject you can imagine, shades of wallpaper perhaps, and he'd find a way to compare colors to Christine's eyes."

Christine blew a piece of hair out of her face. "Perhaps I just have nice eyes. Can we talk about something else?"

"What would you prefer?" Erik sighed.

"Perhaps we shouldn't talk at all, at least not about me," said Christine. "I'd like some wine."

"I'll open the bottle, mademoiselle," Erik bowed in mock deference. "Your wish is my command." He went into the other room, whistling.

Christine took Sassan's hand. "How have you been, how is Paris?"

"Beautiful and dirty all at once, as usual," his strong hand squeezed hers. "But it's my city and I can't bear to leave it for long, especially when Erik is being so Erik-like to you."

She had to laugh at that. "Erik-like, what a delightful turn of phrase."

"Really, truly, you must come with me back to Paris. At least think about it," Sassan urged. "They're holding this great exhibition with displays from all over the world. I know you would love it. Last time, they built the most peculiar tower I've ever seen."

Christine furrowed her brow. "Perhaps, if I've saved enough."

"It would be my treat," he said, his kind, dark eyes twinkling. "For looking after poor, unhappy Erik when I'm away."

"I had no idea Christine and I's relationship was so transactional," Erik called the other room. "I would have hoped my charms and stunning good looks would be enough for her."

"I'll… think about it," she said, ignoring Erik's interjection. But she could tell Sassan knew she was lying. It wasn't that she didn't want to go, it's just the thought of being indebted to him, even if she knew very well he never intended on collecting anything in return, unsettled her stomach. It unsettled her quite a bit. She took a big gulp of wine.

**_RAOUL_******

Philippe's telegram came at the most unwelcome time. Truly, any contact at all from Paris was unwelcome, especially after that last incident, but the extended Chagny family, especially his siblings, had a knack for inserting themselves into places of Raoul's life he didn't want them. Case in point, Perros.

Philippe had written that he intended to take a weekend away from the city, but what he really meant is that he intended to impose on Raoul so he could report back to the rest of the family on his condition. It was true that he hadn't responded to most of their letters, but how could he when all of them began with accusatory questions and ended with demands for him to return. He wasn't a little boy anymore and he certainly wasn't the lad of eighteen who tried to play Russian Roulette with all the chambers purposefully loaded. He was nearly thirty years old and a father of a young daughter besides that.

Raoul's reply to the telegram had been an empathetic "NO", although with the added message that perhaps, if he insisted on coming, that Fanny Sorelli and her daughters might like to come as well. Philippe's lack of further reply assured Raoul he had a reprieve for now.

Philippe served as "godfather" to his paramour La Sorelli's daughters, although it was clear to anyone with eyes or a rudimentary knowledge of biology that it had not been an immaculate conception that resulted in the birth of Giselle and Aurore. The two of them (named after their mother's most famous roles) might even have a new sister or brother on the way. The Chagny genes were truly so strong that any member of the clan was instantly recognizable.

Fatherhood had somewhat changed Philippe, who was still unmarried even though he was creeping closer to fifty and farther from forty every day. He did seem more at ease and claimed to get less of those crippling headaches from worrying about his brother. For a while, his stern fatherly focus shifted from Raoul to Giselle, who he spoiled endlessly. What use did a mother of pearl and ruby-encrusted baby rattle have to a newborn? But Philippe, ever the multitasker, still found time in his busy schedule to try to dictate how Raoul should live his life.

He was still seething that night, of course pausing his irritation when he was around Clémentine, the light of his life. But, as soon as he put her in bed, his moodiness flared up once more. He sat in the study, perhaps having an additional glass of scotch that wasn't strictly necessary. He gazed out the window, which gave him a rather clear view of Erik's cottage, as well as Christine's if he squinted. Which he only sometimes did.

Speaking of Christine, he thought he spied her trudging along the path to the cottage. Not that he was spying. It was just by happenstance he could see her walk up to Erik's door and knock, Raoul's heart skipping a beat when she looked up at the big house before she entered.

_Rather unusual time of a day for a visit _, Raoul thought, it was nearly eight o'clock. Still, it was none of his business, and he tried to get back to his book. Maybe another scotch might serve him well.

He did read, for a while, only occasionally getting distracted by speculating what exactly was going on in the caretaker's cottage. But only a normal amount of speculation, of course. After an hour had passed, he decided some night air might do him some good. Without telling anyone, he found his coat and hat and set out for a walk. How refreshing, to come and go as he pleased. But, just in case anyone on the property questioned why he was out and about, which he didn't anticipate happening, he slipped Erik's notebook into his pocket. The man had simply left it behind, and Raoul would return it, if necessary. Nevermind the fact that it seemed Erik always left it behind, probably purposefully, but that story didn't matter, because Raoul didn't intend on going to the cottage anyway. Probably.

The autumn air was quite chilly that night and Raoul wished he had brought a scarf almost immediately. Still, there was no need to go back in, perhaps attracting more attention to himself. For reasons unclear even to him, he was trying to not draw attention to himself.

Still, like a moth to a flame, he found himself walking in the general direction of the cottage, but certainly not towards the cottage. But, as he grew closer, he could indistinctly see the shadow of three people inside. From here, he could hear piano music and uproarious laughter, the highest pitched of the trio striking him to the core.

And like the idiot he was, he knocked on the door. Just as the last time he had knocked, Christine answered, only this time she was in a merry mood and wearing a crown made of paper.

"Raoul," she tilted her head, the smile on her face broadening."It's past your bedtime!"

"I could say the same for you," he said, trying to match her jovial tone and utterly failing.

She giggled as if he was the funniest man in the world, her face flushed. "Come in, come in!"

She grasped his hand to tug him inside. _Was she… was she drunk? _

Erik had his back turned, pouring cups of some fragrant tea while a stranger, perhaps the most stunningly handsome man Raoul had ever seen, rose from his seat to greet him.

"Ah, Monsieur le Vicomte, Erik and Christine have told me all about you," the bronze-skinned man grinned, revealing perfect white teeth.

Christine took her hand out of Raoul's and he felt the absence acutely. "This is Sassan, he's from Paris, he's Erik's friend-" she paused to let out a snort. "And I suppose he's my friend too when he's not beating me at cards."

"Come, come, we can't all be perfect and handsome like me," Erik turned around, bearing cups of steaming tea. Raoul sensed immediately that something was wrong with Erik's face, but couldn't put a finger on it.

This Sassan man seemed to realize as well, tugging on Erik's sweater. "Your nose."

And indeed, there was a gaping hole surrounded by twisted flesh in the middle of Erik's face. Perhaps Raoul had been too distracted by the stranger's beauty to pick up on that. Or he was drunk.

"Everyone look on the floor!" Christine shrieked. She_ was _drunk.

Raoul, deeply confused and slightly horrified, was the only one to not drop to his knees. "Do you think it can be sewn back on? Is this some sort of medical condition?"

"Only the medical condition of being born, I'm afraid," said Erik. "So sorry to frighten you, Raoul."

"It's fine-" he started.

"Aha!" Christine held a triangular piece of flesh-colored _something _aloft. "Found it!"

Erik snatched it from her hands and popped it back in. Raoul took the liberty of falling back into an unused chair.

"What exactly just happened?" he said, once everyone had scrambled to their feet.

"I'm afraid I was born without a nose," Erik said. "I wear a false one, just to be polite and avoid questions. I know I'm an ugly, gaunt-looking fellow, but without the stage paint, I look even worse."

"Stage paint?" Raoul asked, questioning but not derisive.

"I've spent some time abroad, dabbling in all sorts of trades, I may have mentioned. Spent some time performing and learned a bit about how to conceal the worst of it. Transformed me from a freak of nature to just unfortunate-looking. The false nose has the great added benefit of preventing dust from getting in my lungs while we work. Would you like to take a look at it?"

Erik removed his nose and hesitantly held it out. Raoul took it gingerly, afraid he might break it. To his surprise, it was flexible but still held some rigidity.

"What's it made of?"

"Rubber," Erik said. "I actually made this one myself."

"Well," Raoul said, carefully. "I suppose you haven't shown this to Clémentine..."

"No, I didn't want to scare her, of course not." Erik rubbed his hands together anxiously.

"See, that's your mistake. You could play the ultimate game of 'got your nose'," Raoul gave a small grin.

It was as if all the pressure had been left out of the room. Christine and Sassan burst into laughter, followed quickly by Erik.

After the laughter had abated, Christine spoke. "Shall we continue with our reading? Perhaps Raoul would like to join."

Before Raoul could ask for clarification, Sassan interjected. "Monsieur le Vicomte, when I come to pay a call on Erik and we have our little parties, Erik plays the piano and we'll sing through operas, sometimes we'll do dramatic readings of plays. Well, I have a middling voice, so I usually read the stage directions while these two sing. It's quite fun."

"I can imagine, Christine has always had a lovely voice. I'd enjoy just watching, I think," Raoul said.

Christine fumbled around, looking for something and hiccuping. She seemed more than a little tipsy. "Where's my score? I know I left it somewhere…" She downed the rest of her glass of wine.

Sassan seemed to share Raoul's concern for Christine's condition. "Perhaps, you should retire for the night, Christine, I'll walk you home."

"What?" she cried, slurring almost imperceptibly. "I've hardly… oh… well, I suppose."

"Monsieur Sassan," Raoul said. "I'd be glad to walk her home. If that's what she wants."

There was a sense of general uneasiness in the air that hadn't been there moments ago. Erik and Sassan shared a look.

"You're right, Sassan, I should go home," Christine ruffled his hair. "And you probably would rather rest, you've had a long day of traveling. Raoul can walk me."

"Well, of course," Erik said. "Just, Raoul, tell me when you come back, so I know she got home safe."

It was a rather big production to get Christine properly bundled up. She wanted to kiss everyone on the cheek.

As they walked, the cool air seemed to sober Christine. Her chattering, which Raoul made sure to hang on to every word, reduced in speed. As they neared her house, there was a lull in the conversation, after which Raoul finally spoke.

"I don't suppose Monsieur Sassan's wife ever pays a call to Erik."

She snorted. "Sassan has no wife."

Something that had been brewing in the back of Raoul's brain all evening came to the forefront.

"Christine," he said carefully. "Are you sure you should be hanging around these two bachelors alone?

She froze. "How can I be alone when I'm with two people?"

He knew by then he had made a mistake, but perhaps mixing drinks made him continue.

"You know what I mean… unchaperoned?"

She started walking again, so briskly that Raoul had to catch up.

"And who, pray tell, should serve as my chaperone?"

He could not see Christine's expression when she was walking so fast, but he could tell she was irritated with him.

"I mean, it's just that… They both seem quite nice, but… well, you just don't know if their intentions are pure."

She spun around, fury written on every feature of her face.

"I've known these men five years and haven't seen you in over a decade. How do I know _your _intentions are pure?"

Raoul took a step back. "I didn't mean that. Christine, I would never, you just don't have a father to-"

"Protect me? Oh thank you, Raoul, I had quite forgotten that my father had died, thank you ever so much for reminding me."

He was a complete idiot, he knew that full well by now. He knew he had to be careful. He had only just regained Christine's friendship, he couldn't bear to lose it again.

"Christine- I only meant that- I'm trying to look out for you."

There was a coldness in her features that he had never seen before. "Ah. Look out for me. Monsieur le Vicomte, I have taken care of myself quite well over the years without any man's interference. While you were in Paris, chasing a bit of skirt or whatever it is that Chagny men do, I have lived my life, and yes, supped with bachelors. I know I am perfectly safe. I don't need to justify myself to you or anyone else. Goodbye, Raoul."

With that, she stumbled up the steps to her cottage and slammed the door.

God, what had he done?

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: So sorry for the wait! Thank you to all my lovely commenters.I am still kind of fudging historical details. Without giving everything away, there was a World's Fair type of exhibition in Paris in 1889 and in 1900. My story takes place in between that period, but I still wanted to include it... you'll find out more later.**


	5. Chapter 5

_**CHRISTINE**_

She burst into tears the instant the door slammed shut. She shouldn't have snapped at Raoul, she knew that much. Perhaps it came from a place of genuine concern for her wellbeing, but he had no right to speak to her as if she was too oblivious to realize the possible implications of dining with two bachelors. Never mind the fact that she knew neither Erik nor Sassan had any interest in her or any woman.

They initially intended to keep that information a secret from her. Five years ago, Erik and Christine's friendship was newly minted and she had only met Sassan once before. She didn't quite understand their connection, why an ordinary friend would visit so frequently until all the pieces fell into place.

She had stepped into the other room to get another sugar cube for her tea and had the marvelous idea to scare them. It would have been sweet revenge after Erik had frightened her with the fake rat, although he claimed he hadn't intended to spook her, merely to show off his latest piece of automata.

She was rather light on her feet as she crept back into the room, so quiet that she could hear Sassan furiously whispering Erik to knock it off, Christine would be back any second. She assumed Erik was planning another prank that Sassan intended to spare her from, but instead, she tiptoed in to find the two of them locked in an embrace that could only be interpreted as romantic. They were not kissing on the mouth, but rather Erik had his mouth pressed to Sassan's exposed throat. She had, of course not much experience with passionate kissing beyond what she had read in second-hand romance novels, but even she knew friends of any gender combination didn't usually express closeness like that.

Christine stood stock still for a moment before realizing she should probably give them some privacy. Her attempt to exit silently was thwarted by the creaking floorboard. Both men's eyes snapped open and they sprung apart to opposite ends of the sofa, inadvertently knocking over the teapot. It landed on the carpet with a thump, luckily not shattering as far as she could tell, but still soaking the carpet nevertheless. No one made a move to address it.

Sassan spoke first, a nervous tremor in his baritone voice. "Christine, we only, it's not what-"

Erik interrupted, as usual. "We were- of course it looks like- I'd wish you wouldn't tell."

Christine gave them a sympathetic look that she hoped would quell their fears. But both continued to try to justify themselves. Finally, she spoke.

"There was this girl, a girl who spent a summer here when we were sixteen," she began.

Erik opened his mouth to interject but Sassan took his hand to silence him.

"Her name was Mirielle. She was my first real friend… in a while. She had such silky red hair, I was so jealous of it. I thought I was jealous of her too, although she was perfectly kind to me…" she trailed off, afraid she wasn't making sense.

Erik nodded as if he wanted her to go on. Sassan's eyes were brimming with tears.

"She and… well, she and this other boy, one who lived here year-round, were sweethearts that summer. I caught them kissing too, and I thought, I thought I hated her. I thought I loved this other boy, that's why I was jealous of her. Mirielle and her perfect hair, Mirielle with her soft white hands and developed bosom. But she… she taught me a game and everything made sense. A game where you practice kissing." She sucked in a breath. "And suddenly I understood."

"Are you saying, Christine… that you are one of us?" Erik said, as soft as she had ever heard him speak.

"I… I don't know. Men.. men are handsome as well, I think." She wasn't sure if she would cry or vomit but at the time like a burden was lifted off her back. "I've never told anyone that story."

"Thank you for trusting us," Sassan said, his handsome face unfurrowing.

"Now- now we both can keep each other's secrets, you see?" she gave a small smile. "Now, could we pick up the teapot?"

That incident is what had truly cemented her friendship with the two. Recalling it now just increased the flow of tears. She fumbled around her bedside table to find a handkerchief but to no avail. She resorted to wiping her hands with her sleeve.

Of course, she could tell Raoul the truth and perhaps all would be mended, once he understood. He could apologize, she could apologize. But it wasn't her secret to tell, now, was it. And Raoul was an understanding man, she imagined, more broad-minded from his life in Paris. At least she hoped he would be. But she honestly did not know Raoul anymore, this serious man with all the cares in the world. The potential of losing him forever (if she hadn't already) was enough to cause another round of sobs. She really shouldn't have gotten as drunk as she did. But he shouldn't have spoken to her that way.

Eventually, the tears abated a bit, and she decided to dress for bed. She doubted she would get much sleep tonight, but it was worth a try. In her mind, she tried to review her plans for tomorrow. There was a visit to the le Quellecs, yes, and she certainly needed some bread. She realized with slight horror that she was supposed to give Clementine her first lesson tomorrow morning.

She wasn't sure if Raoul would still want to keep her on after she had spoken so harshly. She wasn't even sure she wanted to see him again, after how he had tried to tell her what to do with her life. She spent the night drifting in and out of sleep, alternating detesting Raoul and detesting herself. By the time the sun peeked through the curtains, she had given up on any further rest.

She dressed quickly, applied her face powder, pulled on her boots, and prepared herself to go out. As she walked, she was still unsure if she would go to Erik's or Raoul's. Her mind changed every minute.

She really could not afford to lose another client, she decided at last. She had swallowed her pride many times before, and she could do it again. If Raoul decided he would not employ her, at least she would not have deprived herself of potential income. It would be his doing.

When she rang the door, Raoul's valet whose name she could not remember answered. She suddenly felt as if she had to justify herself.

"I'm… I'm here to teach Miss Clementine… Raoul, he said-"

"Of course, of course, Miss Daae," he said. "She's in the parlor waiting for you. The Vicomte hasn't risen for the day yet, but Miss Druset will supervise."

Perhaps Raoul had a rough time sleeping as well.

He ushered her in, taking her cloak and hat. The house was slowly returning to its glory days, she thought. Right now, two workmen were lowering the chandelier in the foyer while a maid scrubbed the steps of the grand staircase. Christine did not linger or stare too long, though. She probably knew all three of them and didn't feel like chatting.

"Do you need assistance finding the room? The Vicomte told me you had visited many times before."

"I know exactly where it is," she said. "Thank you, though."

He gave her a bow and left her to her own devices. When she reached the parlor, Clementine was indeed sitting at the piano, banging noisily on the keys while Apolline tried to quell her. Raoul was nowhere in sight.

"Hello, Miss Clementine," Christine said. "I see you've started without me."

The little girl turned to her, bouncing in her seat. "I want to make it sound pretty, not just loud."

"We can work up to that, I promise. But first, we need to work on learning the pitches. Do you like to sing?"

Clementine clutched her hand. "I love to!"

"That's wonderful, do you have a favorite song?"

"It's one of my Papa taught me. I make him sing me it every night. Yes, do you know the Little Lotte song?"

Christine froze. "He still knows that song? My father taught him that song." She realized she had crumpled her sheet music and frantically tried to smooth it.

Clementine's face was alight with wonder. "Are you Little Lotte? With the red scarf?"

The room felt stiflingly hot all of a sudden. _ Had Raoul told her all their stories? _

"Yes, I am. You know your papa and I used to be very good friends." Christine placed the music on the stand, gesturing for Clementine to scoot over so they could sit together.

"Those are my favorite stories. Because Papa doesn't have as many about my maman," she whispered conspiratorially. "Because I don't have one because she's dead."

"I'm very sorry to hear about your maman, Clementine," Christine bit her lip.

"I'm not that sad. I heard servants talking at the old house and they say Papa buys me so many dolls because he feels _ responsible _. What does that word mean?"

"Clementine!" Apolline chastened. "Miss Christine is here to teach you!"

"Would you like to begin our lesson, Clementine?" Christine said, raising a hand to signal Apolline that she wasn't offended. The governess sighed.

"Yes!" Clementine said. "But only if we play Little Lotte."

**_RAOUL _**

He stumbled home, tears hot on his face. He had repressed the urge to weep for years now and figured that well was dried forever. But something had changed within him, ever since he left Paris. Now he feared he would never be able to stop crying. He had never felt more pathetic.

Raoul passed the cottage to find Sassan outside, smoking a cigar. The near stranger's face fell when he saw the condition Raoul was in.

"All right there, Monsieur le Vicomte?" he called. "Did Christine make it home?"

"Yes, she's home," he sniffled. "Please call me Raoul."

"Of course, Raoul," the man clapped a broad hand on his back.

Raoul really could not stand to do anything but dive into bed, so he made some weak excuse and left. Of course, when he reached the door, it was locked. Faced with the choice of either returning to ask Erik to unlock the door or banging furiously on the door until someone opened it, he selfishly chose the latter. Eventually, Durand, dressed in his nightclothes and rubbing his eyes, let him in.

Raoul climbed the stairs to his room, declining Durand's offer to help him dress for bed. Once he stripped to the waist, he figured he might as well have another drink. It wasn't as if he could get into any more trouble tonight. He wandered into the study for more scotch, before returning to the bedroom and throwing himself, half undressed, under the covers.

His dreams tormented him, as they usually did. Visions of poor Manon, rotting in the Chagny mausoleum, her decaying fingers clutching a bundle he couldn't usually bear to think about. And perched on top of her coffin, two entwined lovers, desecrating her grave, desecrating her memory.

It was the splitting headache that roused him. He awoke to find a lukewarm breakfast tray left out for him and sunlight streaming through the windows. He made it a habit to rise early each day, but perhaps he needed the sleep. Or the justification.

As he picked at his soggy toast, he noticed a note in Durand's hand.

_Miss Daae is downstairs in the parlor. _

God, the music lesson was today, wasn't it? Perhaps she had forgiven him. And perhaps she might still be here.

As he pulled on the clothes set out for him, all he could think about was how stupid he was. How could he think he could prevent Christine from doing anything? One summer, he'd begged her not to climb on the dead tree by her cottage, afraid she might fall. The broken arm had been a testament to her stubbornness. Perhaps a girl of seventeen should be warned about the dangers of unmarried men, but Christine was a decade older and could handle herself. She wouldn't fraternize with people who hurt her, he knew that much. And she could see anyone she wanted and it wasn't Raoul's business when she did it.

Still in the process of tying his cravat, he grabbed his checkbook and ran down the stairs, following the sound of the piano. He nearly tumbled head over heels down the stairs when Christine started singing. Her voice had only improved as the years went by, a perfect, crystalline instrument.

He crept into the room, unnoticed by anyone. As he finished straightening out his clothes, Christine prompted Clementine to sing the scale by herself.

"I like it better when we sing together," his daughter said in a small voice. "Can we do that again?"

Christine squeezed her hand. "I promise you can do it. And if you make a mistake, guess what, that's perfectly fine. Because you're still learning and you only learn…"

"When you make mistakes!" Clementine smiled.

"All right, now it's time for you to try," Christine said kindly.

Clementine's voice was small and wobbly as she began to sing, but she did make it to the end.

"Wonderful!" Christine cheered, wrapping her arms around her pupil.

Raoul couldn't help but get choked up, bursting into rapturous applause, startling Christine, Clementine, and Apolline, who had nodded off.

"Papa!" Clementine jumped from the bench and ran into his arms. "Miss Christine taught me how to sing!"

He picked her up and held her against his chest. "I heard! You sound so wonderful! We'll have to thank Miss Christine and ask her to come back later in the week." He kissed the top of her head.

"Oh, I wish Miss Christine could come every day!" she pouted. The look on her face made Raoul consider buying her a pony to compensate.

Christine's eyes were on the floor. "Oh, I'm sure you and your papa would get sick of me." There was an edge to her voice now that she knew Raoul was in the room.

"Never!" Clementine kissed her father's cheek and gestured to be let down. "Do you want to stay for lunch? We're having chocolate mousse and nothing else!"

"I'm not sure where you got that idea," said Apolline.

"I am quite flattered that you want me to stay," Christine gave a glance to Raoul, before redirecting her attention. "But other little boys and little girls are waiting for me to teach them and I wouldn't want to keep them waiting."

"Apolline," said Raoul. "Why don't you take Clementine for a walk? I'll just take care of Miss Christine's expenses."

Clementine was persuaded to go out, walking backward so she could wave to Christine until she was out of sight. There was a change in the air once Raoul was alone with Christine.

"About last night-" he started.

"I would love to rehash that with you, Monsieur le Vicomte," Christine said. "But I really must go."

"At least let me give you a ride, please, it'll only take ten minutes and we can go."

_Did he sound desperate, needy, begging? Should he be groveling at her feet? _

"I don't have enough time to wait," she said testily. "If you would prefer to pay me later, I suppose-"

"No," he said firmly. "I've got the checkbook right here. How much do I owe you?"

She seemed taken aback by the question. "My clients usually pay whatever they can afford."

That only increased Raoul's confusion, but he didn't want to contradict her any further. He had no idea what the going rate per lesson was, in Paris or elsewhere, so he figured he'd just write a check for a hundred francs and be done with it.

She took the check from him gingerly, not looking at the amount. "How about Friday?"

"Friday?" his eyes felt as they would pop out of his head.

"For Clementine's next lesson, Raoul."

At least she was calling him Raoul again.

"Of course. At the same time, if you can manage."

There was a slight smile on her face. "I can manage just about anything."

Durand came around with her coat and hat, and she was off. Raoul watched her from the window in a way that he hoped wasn't creepy. She pulled the check out of her pocket, reading it before letting out a wordless exclamation that the wind carried back to the house. Then, the check slipped from her fingers and she chased it down the beach.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Can't believe I'm updating twice in one week! A hundred francs in 1896 is equivalent to almost $600 USD today. So quite the windfall for Christine!**


	6. Chapter 6

_**RAOUL**_

As October crept into November, Raoul began to question whether it had been a good idea to move to Perros after all. Clémentine seemed happy enough, having found a playmate in a neighbor girl. But even with the knowledge, his daughter was content, Raoul spent a significant amount of time with his head in his hands, despondent over regaining and then losing Christine's friendship.

She still came to call that Friday, of course, but only to teach Clémentine's lesson. Raoul listened from the other room, formulating a proper apology, but when it came time to pay her, his courage vanished. She seemed too tense to accept anything from him, even another check.

"No, no," she said when the lesson had concluded and he reached for his checkbook. "You overpaid last time."

"You said your clients paid what they could afford," he said, opening the checkbook anyways. "I have no idea what that meant. I could write a check for five hundred francs if you wished."

Christine looked down at her boots and sighed. "I suppose if you insist, you can pay me the same amount as last time."

"Wonderful," he tore the check out. "Would you like a ride home as well?"

She pondered for a fraction of a second. "That won't be necessary. Thank you, Raoul." And with that, she left.

Defeated, he thought he might take Clémentine for a walk, just to clear his head. He'd try to enjoy the rare warm autumn day, even if the cheery weather didn't match his mood.

He gave Apolline the afternoon off, assuring her that he was perfectly capable of taking care of his own daughter. Clémentine happily took his hand and allowed him to button her new boots and coat.

Outside, Clémentine's new friend, a dark-haired waif called Léna, was nowhere to be found. The motherless little girl's father was a fisherman and with no one to look after her while her father was at sea, she was mostly left to her own devices, wandering the beach by herself even though she was only seven years old. Raoul, quite concerned for her welfare, told Léna she was welcome at his house any time she liked. Judging by the girl's bony frame and ragged clothes, the girl needed serious assistance, but Léna's father wouldn't answer the door when Raoul knocked.

Surely Clémentine realized the vast difference between Léna's situation and her own. Raoul had been several years older when he first met Christine but had been constantly aware that Christine lacked many things he took for granted, like solid boots without holes. But at least Christine had a father who loved her.

"Did Léna say she wanted to play today?" Raoul said, carefully choosing his words. "I thought perhaps she could come to lunch."

"I hope she'll come!" Clémentine squeezed his hand. "I want to play pirates. But I'm happy that I have time with just you and me, Papa."

"Of course," he squeezed back. "There's nothing I love more than spending time with my little princess."

And that was true. In the times when despair and bitter guilt swept over him like a tidal wave, the knowledge that his darling daughter needed her father kept him afloat.

In the darkest days of his life, it had been Clémentine who had saved him. In the days after Manon's death, before she was buried, he had played the part of a respectable, grieving husband rather well. He was appropriately solemn and composed, performing what was expected of him even though all he could process was the distinct metallic taste in his mouth. He knew he should be weeping, but his brain was too foggy to make sense of anything.

In the days before the funeral, Raoul was never given a moment of privacy. Both sides of the extended family descended on the house, fussing over Raoul and the still nameless baby. But after the burial, one by one the family left to resume their lives.

All of a sudden, Raoul was left alone in the house that had his name on the deed, but every detail and furnishing chosen by Manon. Alone except for the baby girl who he'd only held a few times, staring down at this strange creature who shared his blood until he couldn't take it anymore.

He'd never imagined living long enough to have a wife and a child, but in his childhood imagination, he always believed he'd be the kindest, most loving father. In those first days of Clémentine's life, he'd only felt faint stirrings in his breast, any genuine sentiment muffled by the haze of despair that was suffocating him.

On that first night, alone in the house except for his daughter and a few servants, he'd contemplated the pistol in the nightstand drawer. It would have been so easy, a click of the trigger, and then eternal rest. Why should someone as useless as he lives while Manon was in the ground? What could he offer the world?

He was contemplating the barrel of the gun when a piercing cry rang out. He rushed to the nursery to find the baby distressed over her sock coming off. He scooped her up in his arms, cradling her head. It was as if he was looking at the child for the first time and in his heart, he found a new purpose. Clémentine needed him. She may have lost her mother, but she would not lose her father.

"Papa?" Clémentine said in a small voice.

Raoul blinked in the sunlight. There he went again, living in the past when there was so much good in the future to look forward to.

"Yes, my darling?"

"I think you should get married again!" she said, suddenly crouching to pick up a seashell.

Raoul's mouth felt incredibly dry all of a sudden. "Who do you think I should marry?"

Clémentine glanced up at him with adoring eyes. "Oh, that's not important. As long as she's not a mean stepmother like in the story I read."

"But why should I get married again?" He always wondered if he should have remarried to give Clémentine a stepmother at least. Had he failed her?

"Because it's unfair that you had a wedding with Maman and I wasn't invited because I wasn't born," she crossed her arms. "I want to be the flower girl at your wedding and wear a pretty dress."

Raoul had a deep belly laugh at that. "I'll see what I can do about the pretty dress. The wedding part… might take some time."

"Oh! There's Léna!" Clémentine hopped to her feet. And indeed, he could see the girl's tiny figure down the beach, waving.

"Can I run to her, Papa?" she tugged on his arm. "I'll be careful, I promise!"

Raoul nodded in assent. Clémentine took off, as fast as she could. She was only about ten meters away when the world seemed to slow down. Her little foot caught on a rock, sending Clémentine tumbling face down onto the sand.

Raoul scrambled to get to his daughter, who was wailing to wake the dead, but Léna was there first.

"Clémentine? Are you all right?" he could feel tears welling in his own eyes. "Please tell me you're okay? Let's sit up."

Clémentine said something, but her tears streaming down her face made her speech unrecognizable.

Raoul helped her to a sitting position but realized with horror that her arm was bent at an unnatural angle.

"Léna," he said quietly, careful not to scare either of the girls. "I need you to run to the house as fast as you can and get an adult, any adult, and tell them to summon a doctor for Clémentine. Tell them the Vicomte said so and it's absolutely urgent. Can you do that for me?"

The little girl nodded, tears leaving clean streaks on her dirty face. "Yes, monsieur."

The little girl ran off towards the house, leaving Raoul alone with Clémentine, still wailing. Raoul pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, dabbing at the cuts on his daughter's face.

"Are you hurt anywhere besides your arm and your face?"

"My-my knee is cut up," she whimpered. And indeed, her stocking was torn and saturated with blood.

"Do you think you can walk to the house?"

She shook her head.

"All right, we'll stay here."

It wasn't as if he couldn't carry her, although the day would come relatively soon when he couldn't manage her weight with ease. He didn't trust his legs to not give out from shock. He tried to soothe her the best he could in the minutes that followed.

The problem was solved for him when Erik and Léna came down the stone steps to the beach.

"Need a hand there, Raoul?" he said, for once not in a cheerful mood?. "Is Miss Clémentine all right, I heard Léna shouting. Emile, the kitchen boy, he's set out on his bicycle to get a doctor."

"Erik, could you carry her to the house? I'm so shaky, I'm afraid I'd drop her."

"Of course," he took Clémentine in his arms gently.

As the party made their way up the stairs, all Raoul could do was blame himself. Maybe her new boots were too big. He should have told her to be more careful. He should have been more careful.

Once they were in the house, Erik gingerly deposited her on the sofa.

"Erik," Clémentine sniffled. "Can you use your magic to make my arm feel better?"

"Maybe I can make your mind feel better," he said. "I'll go get my cards, okay?"

He gave Raoul a somber look and left the room.

"Will she get better?" Léna looked up at Raoul with wet eyes. "I didn't mean for her to get hurt."

"Of course you didn't mean it. Once the doctor gets here, I'm sure he'll be able to help."

Raoul took Léna's hand in one of his hands and Clémentine's good hand in his other. "We'll all be fine."

Only about twenty more minutes passed before the doctor arrived, a black-haired man about Raoul's age with a toothy grin. He seemed vaguely familiar.

"Oh, Miss Clémentine," he said. "I heard you had a nasty fall. Let me see what I can do to fix your arm."

"Thank you so much for coming on short notice, Doctor …?"

"Doctor Cariou," the man smiled. "You might remember me from your youth in Perros, Monsieur le Vicomte. Daniel Cariou, we played together a few times, although your favorite playmate was always Miss Daaé."


End file.
